


The Taste of Fears

by Shiggityshwa



Series: Watch the Birdie [10]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark fic, Episode: s10e13 The Road Not Taken, F/M, Kinda canon compliant, Misogyny, Parallel Universe, Pre-the road not taken, Pregnancy, Shock, Stranded, dark au, orici, stranded fic, uses the universe set in "the road not taken", ver isca
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25805848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiggityshwa/pseuds/Shiggityshwa
Summary: An imagined retelling of Season 9 and 10 in the 'Road Not Taken' universe.Tenth in an ongoing series detailing what happened in the The Road Not Taken universe before Sam's arrival. Focuses Cameron's fall from grace and Vala's incarceration at Area 51. This story deals specifically with the mounting tension with the villagers.
Relationships: Vala Mal Doran/Cameron Mitchell
Series: Watch the Birdie [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1183454
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Horrible Imaginings

The shock sets in and stays with her for a while—he’s seen it enough times, from his friends in the force, from his brother surviving two tours and not wanting to go back for a third—then not coming back from the third—from his dad who would wake up screaming sometimes—he thought it was from pain until the same situation almost happened with him.

Closes his eyes and he just repeatedly smacking into the ice.

Or explodes in a downtown theater after giving a six out of ten speech.

Pulled her away from the crowd as she bucked against him, wanting to save her friend, the friend who saved her life.

She was honest with Denya—told him when Denya didn’t immediately report her, she knew they could trust her, knew they were working on the same side.

There was a plan for alternate galaxy communication, but it died in the city center with her.

For the next day and a half, she didn’t move.

Wouldn’t eat or sleep, just laid on her back in the bed, the only movement was her hand rubbing over her stomach, a really noticeable bump now—figures if she got pregnant the first time they had sex in this galaxy, or the last time they did in their own, that she’s around six months now.

He lays beside her, strokes her arm or her hair, reads to her from other novels he’s bought with his wage increase. When she doesn’t seem to react to those, he starts telling her stories of his childhood, crashing a car into a huge hay bale at the age of fifteen without even a learner’s permit and how he knew from the speed that he wanted more, more of that adrenaline coursing through him, knew then he wanted to be a pilot.

Sometimes he tells her the plots of tv shows or movies, and when he gets to Ms. Doubtfire she cracks a smile, he grins back. She gets a little better after that, he still has to help her out of bed, get washed and ready, go with her to the market, and help her to the couch to stare at the fire while he prepares all the meals.

She lays on her side, her body dormant and still, but he can see the rush of thoughts in her unblinking eyes.

He got two days off—one because of the promotion and one was their rest day—but when he goes to Tomin, asking who he talks to about getting more days off because Seevis is no where to be found, the other man looks at him fully insulted.

“Your wife should be caring for you and doing those tasks,” Tomin explains, buffing his armor until it shines.

“She does, but she’s sick right now and with the baby, she needs—”

“If she is sick, then the Ori will heal her if she needs it. It is not a man’s job to—”

He stops listening after that because there’s no sense in arguing how things are done here. It’s not going to help their cause or help them get home.

Walks home in defeat after buying a few herbs from the market, thinking that one must make a relaxing tea or scent or something, and finds her sitting up on the couch, her eyes wild, on hand clutching her stomach and the other digging into the cushion.

“You okay?” Questions over his shoulder as he locks the door and double checks it. When he turns back, she’s shaking and starting to cry. “What happened?”

“It’s stupid.” The first words she’s spoken in almost two days. Her voice is small and hoarse, and she clears her throat.

She’s talking and it’s a start. He doesn’t placate her into telling him or force her.

Simply takes her hand, rounding to the front of the couch, the heat from the fire licking at his legs and the back of his neck, and sits beside her. 

She ends up sprawled over him, her body sideways, her head resting beneath his chin, his hand stroking her hair, pulling it away from her shoulders, drawing little swirls and marks there. Her stomach presses into his and he gets to feel the movement of a child he’s neither of them wanted, but now he would fight tooth and nail to keep. Pictures the little guy doing somersaults swirling from top to bottom and starting over again.

After a few minutes of their breathing together, of a crackling fire that she side eyes, at her playing with the loose threads on his collar, her cold nose nuzzling at his neck. Her breathes even out against his skin and if she falls asleep, at least she’ll get a decent rest.

There’s no one in the villager he can talk to about this. None of the men seem to know or care what goes on with their wives, and that might be another reason why there’s no kids younger than eight in this village. He’s guessing a lot of them don’t make it, through the indifference of the spouses, or through Denya’s mediation.

If he asks the right person, maybe he can get some suggestions on herbs or plants that can help settle her down. He doesn’t want to sedate her or for her to comply with everything he suggests—half of their conversations is pithy banter about things they disagree on—but she was in shock for at least a day, knows she has some lingering anxiety and maybe some PTSD, and even though he’s been field trained to deal with basic injuries like a bash on her hairline, he doesn’t know how to help her mind.

But she surprises him by trusting him.

“I had a bad dream.”

Lets him in, even though he refused to let her help Denya because he can’t come home one day and find her in the village center all ashes to ashes.

Doesn’t say any encouraging words, doesn’t tell her to continue, because right now she’s in a very fragile place, and he has to let her make the decision to trust, to make the choice to let him in, to allow him to take care of her.

“I was upstairs in bed. Laying on my back.” The tickle of her finger against his collar, the side of his throat is growing faster, more nervous. “I had my hands on my stomach and the baby was kicking up a storm.”

Pauses to swallow, can feel it against his chest, the hollowness in hers, the exhaustion in her movements. Trying to shift to get more comfortable, but her shaking arms collapse her back into place. Reaches his hands to help her, but they freeze in the air as she speaks.

“There was a fire in the canopy of our bed, and from it came—a—a—a face.”

Pillows her head against one hand resting on his chest, and with the other, curls her fingers into his shirt, fisting the material. “It got lower and lower and hotter and hotter.”

Her eyes squint as she forces herself to remember, and he can’t help himself—slips his hand within hers to take the fabric’s place, cold fingers curling against his, fitting with perfection. “The face had teeth—and it opened it’s mouth—lower and hotter—until—until—”

Reads between the lines, gathering her closer to him. Doesn’t tell her that it was just a dream because she knows that—doesn’t need to hear that. What she needs to hear she’s afraid to say, but he knows her, knows how strong she is to a fault, how she stood there, wasting away before him and gave him back his legs because she could.

“It’s okay to be scared,” speaks it into her hair that doesn’t smell like flowers or fruit anymore, just the empty scent of water.

With that one sentence her breathing evens.

Doesn’t know what it was that made her this way, whether it was being host to a Goa’uld, or some survivalist trait from before that. She complains, but never about the stuff that matters. Never about being tired, or the drafty window, or the bullet wound she sported for so long.

Not about the kid she’s carrying all in the front.

“It’s so stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.”

He can still smell the burning flesh and he didn’t even know Denya that well. Still feels the guilt because she alone saved Vala and when it came time for them to reciprocate the favor, he refused to. Can’t shake the image of her in the town, wind blowing around her charred skin like the corpse when they first got here. “The last months haven’t exactly been easy.”

She shakes her head against him, and he doesn’t know what she’s disagreeing with him about, but he lets her, allows her to cry in the peace and safety of his arms because he can. Drops a kiss to her shoulder and lets his lips linger, stitching the feeling into his memory.

“I’m here. I got your back.”


	2. Present Fears

The snow all melts within a week and the week afters the weather kicks up to being desert hot. The villagers say it’s normal, that it should only last for a week or two before the temperature evens out. Vala, in the meantime, does anything she can to abate the heat. Rolls up the sleeves of her dress, but they’re pretty tight against her skin, so it doesn’t work very well. Then she tries tucking up the hem of her dress, but it always falls down again, so for a day or two, she just stops going outside.

The town knows she’s pregnant now, most of the men congratulating him on a job well done—all except for Seevis, who hasn’t been around much, the tavern not really open as it usually is—they also tell him his job is done. So, when he goes to the market alone, they all berate him. They say he’s spoiling her and the baby before it’s even born.

Say he’ll never get respect from her without demanding it.

But he comes home with a sack of groceries and she brings him water, exchanging him for the food she stores away while he gulps from the cup. She’s taken to only wearing one of his long night shirts when she’s in the house because she cannot relieve herself of the temperature.

Even knows when he adds a log to the fire, tries to convince him to just eat salads until the heatwave dies down.

He’s there for her, but he’s not.

Has to leave for a weekend training stint, partly to get the younger recruits used to the hotter weather. When he tells her, her face falls, the joy of beginning to trust him, to rely on him, to feel safe in their house despite the situation, rolls away just like her lips do.

“Vala—” trails her around the couch, following as she starts to climb the stairs—he readies himself to catch her because she has a penchant for stepping on the hem of her dress—or his night shirt—and going down. “Sweetheart, you know I don’t want to go.”

She doesn’t answer him, just disappears directly into the water closet as soon as she makes it to the loft.

Then he gets to listen to her sob from the other side of the door. Lets her be by herself for a few minutes before rapping lightly on the wood with only the knuckle of his index finger. “Vala?”

Her crying softens until he can’t hear them anymore. After a few seconds with no more outbreaking cries, he speaks in a gentle tone, “Honey, please open the door.”

Doesn’t know if she will.

Thinks he knows her pretty well at this point, but there are some areas of her that are still gray to him. Some where he’s not sure how she’ll react. Knows the baby is one of those. Neither of them wanted it to begin with, but when her choice was taken, she fought against him despite knowing he was right.

He’s learned to be more patient with her, let’s her do the things that can be done on her own time because there are so many restrictions here for her.

In return, he’s rewarded with trust.

There’s a pop and the bathroom door jitters open.

She’s sitting with her head in her hands, elbows on her knees as much as she can. Her face has reddened with the exertion of crying, and her cheeks shine with the tears.

“I used to be strong you know.” Tells him with a rueful smile when he ducks his head fully around the corner. “I used to be so much stronger.”

Fits into the small room the best he can, letting her wrap her arms around his torso. She clings to him as he uses the loose material on his shirt to wipe at her tears.

“I think you’re stronger now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Macbeth


	3. Tongues of Soothers

She doesn’t want him to leave.

He doesn’t want to go.

But sometimes despite how easy their wants are, how strong her intuition is, he can’t listen. He’s gotta follow orders because he was a soldier first, and he knows how they punish treason in this village. 

“We got a little streak of luck here, Vala.” Tells her while dragging his armor to the door. It’s starting to get scuffed because the scent of the polish makes her stomach churn, so he hasn’t been using it. “We have food, water, shelter. Basic needs all met.”

“Yes, and what of the other ones?” She leans into the wall, her arms crossed in the dress he had tailored for her in a deep purple color because she said it was her favorite. The material looks like burlap, but feels like silk, and she’s tied a rope just under the bump of her stomach as a belt because in the right light the material sort of blends together.

He’s grinning, lost in thought, how in a few months they’re going to have to start tag teaming against a little one.

“Cameron?”

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?”

“Do not try to wheedle your way out of this with compliments.” She turns away, a pink blush creeping to her cheeks, but when she side glances at him, and he’s still grinning at her, her demeanor cracks. “Cameron, I’m serious, what—”

“It’s just for a weekend.” His hand cups the side of her neck, his thumb stroking over the tight muscles, until she starts to relax against his touch. “Actually, I come back tomorrow, and I’m leaving now, so it’s more like twenty-four hours.”

He leans in, his lips replacing his fingers.

“You’re trying to minimize this.”

“Because it is minimal.”

She pulls back, ducking her head, her forehead resting against his chin. Not looking at him. Doesn’t look at him. She never does when she admits something. “What if something happens?”

“Nothing will happen.” His hand falls to the back of her head, where she’s pulled her hair up, and he cradles her, pressing a kiss into her forehead. His other hand slides from around the small of her back and rubs along the side of her stomach. “Everything’s gonna be fine.

But he’s more worried than he’s ever been in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's King Henry IV Pt1


	4. Beauty Blemished Once

He and the other soldiers march home from the plateau where they’ve been placed through training for the last day and a half. The sun is high in the sky and beating down on them from the dirt road crafted between the trees. There’s sweat on almost every bend of his body, pooling in his boots, beads dripping down his back, and burning in his eyes.

But he knows it’s less than ten minutes to town, to his wife, the mother of his child, an idea that’s made him more excited in the last day and a half—twenty-four hours—then he has been this entire time. Initially, he was afraid of raising a kid in a place like this, afraid their baby would blow their cover, but he and Vala are amazing together. They’ve overcome so much, and that shouldn’t stand in the way of something they’ve not only come to accept, but now desire.

Follows the curling path, the dirt giving away to familiar stone and he imagines holding a tiny hand and teaching their kid how to walk. Lifting them up and letting them pick flowers from the blossoming trees. In less than three months, everything will change again, and he’s never been more ready.

He stays close to the buildings, allowing the horses and carts to pass, and hefts the net of his armor over his shoulder one last time, ignoring the strain in his muscles as he passes by the market stalls. Turns the corner, feet from their front door located a little from the town center, and he stops in place, dropping his armor, and bolting towards the square.

All he sees is shimmering purple reflecting the hot sun.

“No, no, no, no.”

Forgets all the pain, all the ache, running, barreling over the hurdle of the bench she’s chained to. Her body has slumped forward while he ran, falling off the bench, the shackles catching her arms. 

“Vala?”

Sweeps her clumping bangs from her sweat soaked face. Her skin is burned and her body limp.

She had a feeling and he ignored it.

This is his fault.

This is all his fault.

Finds a weak pulse at her neck and brings his ear to her chest hearing the shallow inhale of her breath.

“It’s okay.” Cradles her body to his chest, planting a kiss on the scar at her hairline. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“Cameron!”

When he glances up, Tomin is watching him, his eyes so wide they’re almost pure circles. He has both of his feet outside of the bench area and still has his net full of armor cast over his shoulder.

“My friend,” his voice is a harsh whisper, a warning. “You cannot be within the sacrificial—”

“Who did this to her Tomin?” Keeps stroking her face, his fingers leaving lines of grime in their wake. How long has she been out here? Why didn’t anyone help her?—they all know she’s pregnant.

“Please, if she is in the ara, then she is to be—”

“Tomin—” rests her as gently as he on the stones and bursts to his feet, marching towards the other man, the one who saved them from starvation in the forest “—if you do not tell me who did this to her, I will find out, and when I’m done with them, I’m gonna come for you.”

Tomin doesn’t appear very threatened by him, but his calm demeanor shifts into one more preoccupied with loyalty to the Ori, the Tomin he sees while running drills and teaching sixteen-year-old kids how to fire guns that could kill someone at the SGC one day.

“Seevis.”

He’s halfway to the defunct tavern that hasn’t been open in the last month since Denya was burned—she could have been burned. He could have come back to find her charred up under the sun. Come back to the smell of her burnt flesh and it makes him want to puke. It makes him want to punch Seevis until he feels nothing in his knuckles or underneath them.

Pounds his fist into the door so hard he can hear the bell jingling on the other side. Is about to start kicking at the thick wood supporting the bottom of the door when Seevis opens it.

He stampedes through into the darkened tavern, the shutters closed, and all the lanterns snuffed out, leaving only strikes of light from the open door racing across the floor.

“Where is the key?”

“It’s good to see you too, Cameron.” Seevis knocks back the drink in his hand, a tumbler full of a honey colored liquor. His eyes are dull and barely open, his posture is lacking, and he stumbles from behind the door, using the backs of dusty chairs as support while he walks. “I trust training went well.”

“Seevis, where is the key?” Stands idle, the bones in the bends of his fingers aching from carrying the heavy armor, hurting from ensuring he keeps his rage tempered for as long as possible, the hurt distracting as much as it can.

The other man expels a juicy cough from his throat meant to act as a laugh, halfway to the bar now, his glass hanging at his side between his thumb and a finger. “What makes you think that I have the key—Oh, not don’t answer that. I assume our compassionate village men lead you directly to me.”

“I swear to God, if you don’t give me the key right now, I’m gonna—”

“What will you do, Cameron?” Seevis trips over a raised floorboard, tumbling recklessly, catching himself with his hands before falling completely to the ground. He takes a harsh inhale and breaks into coughing again. But then rights himself and stares directly at him with deadened eyes. “What could you possibly take from me that I haven’t already lost?”

That hits him a little close to home, over the fury building within him, a nerve of pity breaks loose, apparently Denya meant more to him than he knew.

In the confusion, the conflicting emotions, Seevis stands again, groaning in what must be one of endless days spent in a drunken stupor, and stomps behind the bar, reaching up underneath and retrieving an iron key, holding it out by the rung hanging it off his finger.

When he goes to retrieve it, Seevis holds it back for a second, closing his finger and demanding his attention.

“You’ll thank me for this in a week or two.”

Once Seevis’s hold falls slack, he snatches up the keys with a glare.

“I don’t think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's The Passionate Pilgrim


	5. Feed my Revenge

Carries her from the bench into the house and upstairs to the loft.

Villagers watched him, but none offered to help. Some badmouthed him while he did it, and as he released Vala’s wrists from iron cuffs that cut and scarred up her skin, he took notice of the different sized rocks scattered around her feet.

Ignored every single person’s protests—particularly Tomin’s as the man ran alongside him like a dog, begging him to put Vala back.

By the tub, he ridded her of the now stained purple dress that he’s going to have to burn—tight funds be damned—there is no way he can look at the material again, no way he can think back to the crippling fear he felt when he saw her incapacitated.

So, he plucked the ties at her back loose, resting her head against his shoulder as he did so, and chucked it over the railing to burn in the fireplace later.

Detailed all of her injuries as he stripped her of clothing while the tub filled with lukewarm water—thought that cold water would be a too much of a shock on her system—Her skin was sunburnt a deep red and peeling along her shoulders, down her back and chest, and on her nose and cheeks—it brought out her freckles more. Her wrists were injured, but they appeared superficial, not too deep, not too much blood, but might leave some bad scars. There were some bruises he suspected were from where she was restrained by men on her arms, and randomly dotted along her back where other villagers pelted her with rocks. 

While working on undoing on her undergarments—a thing she calls a petticoat—she starts to come around and he immediately halts his hands. He knows enough about her past—enough about what happened with Lorne, that he doesn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable or in danger. His hand stills from plucking the strings as her eyelids lift languidly.

Relief flushes over him when she grins at him. “Cameron.”

“Hey, Baby.” Drops his head to profile hers, keeping his fingers still. “I gotta get you in the tub, okay?”

She nods against his head, falling easily back into unconsciousness. She’s dehydrated and probably starving, but he needs her to be more awake before he can do anything about that.

Manages to shuck the rest of her clothing, hating how complicated it is now to undress her when before he could pull her pants and panties off in one swoop and be with her in the same breath. Now it takes both of them working together to get her undressed in a timely manner.

Stares down at her bared stomach for a second. His fingers stilling against her back, holding her up as he tells himself not to try and rouse the baby, that they can’t deal with that right now, and silently send out a prayer to the benevolent God he’s known since childhood, asking for a mulligan, asking for forgiveness because a few months ago, not having the responsibility of this baby is what they were asking for.

He carefully lowers her in the water, watching as the movement picks up bits of dirt and gravel embedded in her skin from how she was laying outside. Puts his hands under the water and starts to cup it over her body as she begins to rouse.

Kneels beside her, not breathing, not thinking, not doing anything but waiting to see if this is enough—to see if they can work together to pull her back.

Thinks an eternity may pass—maybe two—but her head lolls towards him, her eyes fluttering open and painfully closing again. Stays still as she repeats the action, each time gaining a little more strength, until the late afternoon light pouring through their windows isn’t so oppressive.

“Cameron?” Questions, confused, her arms starting to move languidly through the water, swirling it around to break against his side of the tub.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Leans forward, fingers plucking a stray, half wet hair from her face, his heart finally settling.

“I thought I dreamed you.”

Plays his fingers over her hair, his adrenaline levels still spiking, not letting him settle down just yet because this seems too easy, like he’s waiting for the other boot to drop. “I thought the same thing the first time I saw you.”

“Hmm?” Rests her head against the palm of his hand, and he wants to cry, wants to wrap her up, get her clean and fed, and then go take a bat to that bench in the square center and anyone who gets in his way.

“Yeah, I thought you were a hallucination induced from blunt force trauma.”

“I turned out a squish better than that, didn’t—” Her words die as she tries to turn her body, her center of gravity no longer exactly in her center, and she faults, rolling back, sending more water breaking against the lip of the tub.

Reaches to help her, but she doesn’t need it, is probably used to her stomach by now.

Is confident in her ability to keep herself conscious and her head above water, that he presses his hands down against the tub, pushing himself to stand, his knees aching and wet, to walk to the sink and retrieve the cup the use for midnight sips of water.

“How are you feeling?” Asks over his shoulder as he fills the cup—more of a mug—and walks back to her.

Can see the need in her eye, gets the same way when she eyes him sometimes, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

“Thirsty, hungry—” takes the mug from him, and before he can tell her not to gulp it all down in one go, she tries to. He tips the bottom of the mug back into place, and the expression she gives him isn’t anything but exhausted. “My body purely aches.”

“How long were you out there for?” Doesn’t want to know the answer, because no matter what she says, even if it’s five minutes, it’s just going to reignite the rage within him.

She stops her next sip, gray eyes watching him cautiously from over the top of the mug, and she swallows, giving him time to change his mind.

Finally, she hands the mug to him, her fingers keeping balanced on the top, then returning to sink under the muddy colored water. She turns her head away, the ends of her hair, breaking the surface tension. “They shackled me down about an hour after you left.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice


	6. I Do Suffer Love

After he helps her get cleaned, he empties out the basin and refills it with warmer water, but still no where near as steamy as she prefers when she takes her bathes.

When they first arrived in Ver Isca, she would wait until night to bathe, clean the tub after him and then hop in herself. He only knew because the scent of lavender and a few other flowers would waft down from the loft to where he’d fallen asleep on the couch. He climbed the stairs to watch her, the way the firelight and the moonlight mixed and reflected off her body, lighting up the whole room, and he understood how people could think she was a God for so long.

As she leans back against him, he starts to wash her hair, her wet shoulders pressing into his chest. Tries to delicately navigate the areas where the sunburn is more intense, stopping every few minutes to hand her the mug that he’s refilled twice now.

Takes a small jug and pours clean water over her skin, watching the dirt wash away and the bruises, the cuts, become more engraved, become blemishes on her body. Collects her hair, squeezing out the ends watching the blackened water drip back to the tub.

She yawns when they’re almost done, leaning her head back against his chest, in return, he leans his head forward, placing a kiss on the hilt of her shoulder.

“Tired?”

“Actually, I’m hungrier than anything.”

“We’re almost done here.” Kisses her neck, then her jawline just under her ear, repeating to himself that she’s here. She’s okay. Not focusing on what could have happened if he was delayed for one more day. “While you dry up, I can go throw together a quick meal.”

“That sounds lovely.” She pulls the plug with her toes, and the sullied water starts to swirl down the drain with bits of gravel and specks of dirt anchoring to the bottom of the basin. “This child is ravenous.”

“They’re okay?” Turns on the spigot, filling the jug with new water to wash away any lingering dirt. “Other than that?”

“They’re fine, Darling.” Brings his hand down to rest on her stomach, and he feels the familiar movement of their baby spinning within. “A little indignant if anything else.”

Remains, helping her dry off, giving her extra support as she stands on legs that were bent back beneath her for a little over twenty-four hours in the hot sun. Knows because of the dirt caked in the fine lines of the bends of her skin. Ran the sudsy cloth over them several times, trying to wipe away his failure—concrete evidence where he failed to protect her.

Helps her to the bed, a towel wrapped around her, the fabric barely meeting anymore, her legs shaking with the exertion. Coils her up in one of the blankets, allowing her to use the towel to dry out her hair. All their movements are natural and without verbal confirmation. Doesn’t have to ask if she needs help, or if she’s cold. She doesn’t have to ask him for the structuring hand around her back or to remind him that she’s famished. 

The kitchen is in a disarray because she was in the middle of preparing bread for that day when they dragged her out of the house—won’t directly look at the toppled chairs, and the broken link chain on the door. There’s flour spilled over the counter and onto the ground, and the piece of meat set out for stew is writhing with maggots. He collects their waste bin and pushes the graying hunk of flesh off the counter to take outside.

Luckily, he finds the bread she must have made just before she was dragged out the front door. She had the good sense to cover it with a towel, so it’s only a bit stale, but perfect for filling her empty stomach.

He starts a small fire in the hearth, not enough to upset her now adjusted temperature, but enough to heat up the kettle for a weak tea of herbs she’s found that soothes her morning sickness.

Doesn’t know why they took her.

Didn’t bother asking because it doesn’t matter.

She knows things—has information from long lives lived—as Qetesh, undercover as Anubis’s partner, stuck as a prisoner under a mountain. Has knowledge in weaponry, in herbology, in shelter construction, clothing fabrication, and medical knowledge from healing herself and others.

In Ver Isca, all this knowledge is unheard of—borderline forbidden for a man to have, let alone a woman—a woman who is a god in her own right—is sacrilegious.

Maybe she was punished for being too smart.

Gives the counter a wipe, and sweeps up what he can off the floor, moving the waste bin outside the front door for the morning pickup—taken to the communal compost heap where it’s reconstituted into fertilizer for the village crops, a responsibility men too old or injured to be conscripted into the military are charged with.

Places the weak tea, and two slices of the bread on a tray, and heads for the stairs, stepping lightly, because the third from the top is starting to creak something awful.

Finds her sitting her knees angled, and her head slanted so her damp hair cascades down allowing her fingers to weave through it, braiding it out from the base of her skull.

Her stance, mixed with the blue moonlight, and the way the white sheet is draped around her makes her seem ethereal, still like an apparition outside his jet.

A low grin works it’s way onto his face, one he wants to hide from her—a manifestation of the relief he’s feeling, like since he found her in the square, he hasn’t been able to breathe, and now he can finally exhale knowing she’s safe, knowing that if Seevis, or Tomin, or a Prior come for her in the middle of the night, he will fight until the last breath she just rekindled in him.

“Oh.” Plucks at a section of her hair like a harp string, tucking it under the other two sections retained in her hair. She perks up when she sees the tray, dept fingers looping through her hair like a loom until she reaches the ends and ties the pieces up. “What have you brought for me, Darling?”

As he approaches her, she tucks her legs beneath her, but shimmies a bit with the excitement over the bland meal he’s concocted.

“Two pieces of bread, and some of that tea you like.”

Her eyes brighten and she sits fully up. “With a little bit of that cane for—”

Allows a laugh, just one, because they found the equivalent of sugarcane at the market the other day as stock from a traveling trader. He bought a bundle for her because he knows how she takes her tea back on Earth, and it’s more sugar than anything else. “I cut off a small piece and dropped it in there.”

Her hand slides up the side of his face as he leans forward, securing the tray over her thighs. She kisses him softly, so softly he closes his eyes and sighs. Something about this interaction isn’t a pleasantry, or a novelty—not like a good morning kiss—something inherently important and he can’t figure out why, just knows he has to savor it.

“You spoil me, you know.”

He tips up the bottom of her chin and places a kiss on her hairline scar in order to temper all the negativity that’s happened in the last day. She knows it, and he knows it, so talking about it is only going to stir up bad emotions, ones they don’t need to burn so bright right now.

“It’s my pleasure.”

Cleans up around the bathroom, slipping into the tub for a quick wash while she slowly picks away at the bread, trying not to upset her stomach. Every time she takes a sip of the tea she sighs in contentment, her hand rubbing over her stomach.

“Sugar really means that much to you, huh?” Kisses her, his hands on the tray with an empty teacup and the crust of two bread slices.

“I suppose—I mainly enjoy it because it makes the baby buzz with energy.”

He sets the tray down on the floor as he takes a knee before her, his hand matching hers at her stomach. “Did they stop moving for a bit?”

She nods, her lips very tight as she rubs. “I think they just fell asleep.”

“Yeah,” he agrees a little too quickly so he doesn’t have to think of the alternative, of all the herbs that can harm her now, and with Denya no longer here to impart wisdom, the village has become a much more dangerous place.

It’s something they need to speak about, but not right now. The day has already been too full of violence, and close calls, of rage, vendettas, and recriminations. He pats her stomach one final time and reaches for the tray to take it downstairs. “It’s past our usual bedtime.”

“It is.” The yawn she adds is almost poignant, a well acted part. She’s fluffing her pillow as he descends down the stairs, but when he’s in the kitchen, he hears her less than graceful footsteps as she scurries to the toilet because if she doesn’t pee now, the baby will just wake her up in one hour instead of three.

They meet back up in bed, and when she keeps to her half, he’s the one who stretches over into her territory, bringing her against him, handing her the rolled up quilt they bought in the dead of winter to stuff between her legs and alleviate the pressure in her hips and lower back.

There’s the very low crackling of the fireplace downstairs and the moon is high in the sky through the windows.

His fingers trail over the skin on her arm, detouring around bruises and cuts, just feeling the softness of her skin under his. Her fingertips twitching against his ribs as she starts to fall asleep, but then some force—either a baby kick, or a memory—jolts her back awake.

He waits for her to talk.

Her head rests against his bare chest, and he can feel the warmth of each of her breathes. “I had the same dream.”

Feels awful because he doesn’t remember her telling him about a dream. Should be paying more attention to her, to everything she says, because whether she’s aware of it or not, she’s intuitive as hell and when she’s got a nasty feeling, there’s usually some reasoning behind it.

They’re too in sync for him to pretend to know what she’s referring too—he respects her too much—so he slants his head, resting on top of hers, nosing into the scent of her clean hair. “What dream?”

“The one with the fire.” She pauses, all of her fingers curling against his chest in remembrance, in pain and fear that she didn’t actually suffer, but maybe she did.

Maybe she just hasn’t yet.

“Just now?”

“No.” Shakes her head against him, removes her hand from his, and hugs herself tightly to him. “Earlier. In the square.”

Wants to let her know that he’s going to stop putting their cover story first. That within the next eight weeks, he’s going to find them a way out of this village, off this planet, and away from this galaxy. That their baby is going to be born on Earth, happy and healthy, and not know what it’s like to not have a stove or a fridge.

Will never have to be afraid to be dragged into the square when they’re alone.

“I—”

“I knew you would come for me.”

He always does. But he shouldn’t have to.

“There was never a doubt in my mind that you wouldn’t”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Story and chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Macbeth.


End file.
